My Little Flower
by Ink11
Summary: What's kept Tony and Ziva apart all these years? And what is that one thing that will get them together? Could be just a oneshot, will go on if encouraged :  Tiva  duhr  T for safety of possible later chapters.


It was so cold that night that by the time the sun had rose she felt as if she might break the ropes that held her so she could stand near the window. But she had no such strength. Not anymore, anyway.

She waited patiently for that ray of sun to reach her. A thought floated by in her cloudy mind that it was getting late, much later than Saleem came to see her, if he was going to see her at all. She could barely string her thoughts together through the fog to please herself with a little fantasy that next time the bread was dropped in front of her, she would be able to refuse, and maybe waste away until she left this cold body behind and her father didn't need to worry anymore.

The first night it stayed hot for some time after dark, and in the moments Saleem was gone she could sleep. But now the night was cold. It felt like needles against her skin. Time and freezing temperatures put out her little persistent fire of hope.

Or maybe she did. She'd been trained to think logically; hope was not usually an option. She should've been planning a way to escape. But she sat, ignoring the small space between the wall and the floor, ignoring the window which could be easily shattered with her fist, so he could have a chance to make it up to her. Days passed and she let them, fading away as her hope lessened that he had even thought about her. She let time wear on until she was too weak to try anything, all the while begging him to care for her, begging for him to come not just to she could survive in one piece but so she could live like a human, knowing this man who was meant to care for her actually did. And if he did not come, it didn't matter. If he did not come, she would choose death, because this, she swore, would be his last and final chance. He would be sorry this time.

He would be sorry tenfold for all of the times he was not. Maybe he would feel that icy pain that was so familiar to Ziva. Maybe he would realize what it felt like to never be enough.

Time passed, and she watched the ray of sun inch its way towards her bare foot. When it was close enough, she moved her toes into the light and sighed. Footsteps plodded past her door, and she thought she heard Saleem's voice ordering someone around.

More time passed and Ziva had gotten her whole foot plus some of her elbow into the light. She started when Saleem shoved a bag over her head and Ziva sighed, partly in exhaustion, partly in boredom. He dragged her down the hall and turned several times. She memorized each turn, like she'd been trained to… but she tried to let it slip her mind.

And then he seemed to be getting close to another room, for she heard voices. And then she heard a man's voice and she could tell it was not one of Saleem's men because this voice was deeper, and calmer. And for one, horrifying moment, she thought it was him, and her brain pretended she heard the gravelly sound in his throat and the soft Israeli accent. Hope she thought she'd buried deep down flared up inside her as if fed kerosene. Her stomach turned. She was thrust down hard into a wooden chair, and the light was so bright that at first she couldn't tell who it was; either that or she tried not to make out his face, stretching the moments in which it could still be the man she was hoping for. In her mind it couldn't be anyone else, as if this was a dream where she made all the decisions. But her eyes adjusted and shock sank into her in a strangely slow manner, like poison into the victim of a snake's fang.

The face was familiar. She took in his hair, unruly and outlined in sunshine. She looked at his disbelieving green eyes, his angular face, handsome but aging. She counted the lines on his forehead. She stared at him as the hurt burned a deep hole in her.

Somewhere deep down it pained her to see his face fall as words escaped her that she hadn't meant to let loose.

"It had to be you?" A sentence that could have the question mark removed.

But her own hurt overwhelmed his so much that she could barely take it in when he told her he couldn't live without her. He was the wrong person to be saying that. This was all wrong.

She remembered being dragged through dirty hallways, and the sounds of shooting. She remembered her confusion as Tony and McGee picked her up and started to move. The image of Gibbs at the end of the hall was stamped on her brain. She remembered sinking into sleep on the plane, under his gaze, which should have been satisfied instead of worried.

And she remembered waking up to the image of them sleeping at awkward angles- except for Gibbs of course, who looked as if he was born on one of these things. His eyes were closed, but she could still see the worried angles of alertness in him as he slept. And his hands clung fiercely to the dirty cap in his lap. Clung to _her, _she realized slowly. He'd come for her. Not McGee, whose head rolled to the side in innocent peace, not Gibbs, who's face held the remains of a proud smile. It was Tony. It must have been. He had had her back. He had _always_ had her back.

So why was it that all these years later she still refused him? He was her partner. He was her friend, her playmate, her boy toy, her confidant and her lover. Her soul mate. But she could not live with him. She couldn't quite put words to her reservation, but to live with him would be impossible. To live with him would be to live in this world where getting hurt was part of the job, and where home and work, and family and coworkers, all blended into one. She'd tried that before. She couldn't do it again.

She needed to come home to someone who would hold her, who would console her and take the time to buy her flowers and make her feel safe. Tony made her feel safe; under gunfire, for sure. But at home? In her heart? No.

She couldn't bear to look at him.

As if he read her mind he murmured, "I understand,". His eyes shifted from bright green excitement to gray acceptance.

As he used to say, you can't have two flowers in a relationship. There can be two gardeners, and even if it's boring, everyone is being looked after. And you can have a flower and a gardener, and then everyone's happy. But you can't have two flowers. Then no one is looking after the garden, and everything goes to shit.


End file.
